Notes: Thanks to everyone who's given their support. It means more than you probably know.

The forest birdsong filtered through the druid's sleep, bright and heavy with the morning dew. Beatnix shifted. His back wasn't as comfortable as usual—Oh, by Belisama! It all came back to him in a rush: the battered and tortured Gaul, his stricken friend, the frantic work that both of them had done, and only just snatched him from the jaws of death by a miracle. And now – had he survived the night?

"Ouch." Beatnix wasn't a spring chicken anymore, and his body strongly protested the suddenness with which he jumped up off the straw-covered floor. He was too tense to care, though, too eager to see if the wounded Gaul was unlike others who had had similar scourgings. The Roman garrison of Divodurum were vicious. He wouldn't be the first man Beatnix had worked on frantically, only to see his exhausted body give up the fight by sunrise.

He looked long and hard at the sleeping Gaul, but in the flickering firelight, diluted by the light of day, it was impossible to tell whether the man still breathed. "O Dis Pater, father of all the Gauls, do not take him yet. Please, let him be alive," the druid whispered. Taking up his golden sickle from where he had lain it down last night, he polished the blade on his sleeve and bent to the wounded warrior, laying the blade by his cheek, close to his nose and mouth, desperately hoping to see the reflective surface mist over.

"What do you think you're doing!"

The blade clanged to the floor as Beatnix found himself grabbed by the front of his robes and dangled high in the air. Of course – the man's overprotective friend, fierce as a mother bear with only one cub. He pictured the scene as Obelix must have seen it: an unfamiliar druid standing over an unconscious Asterix, holding a blade at his friend's neck. And so, the big man had followed what Beatnix suspected was his usual pattern: violence first, questions later. Beatnix couldn't entirely blame the overwrought man. He hadn't even thought of Obelix in his haste to make sure Asterix was still alive.

"Put me down," Beatnix said coldly. "If I wanted to kill your friend, I would hardly need a blade. All I would need to do is cease to care for him for a few hours."

The words were cruel, but Beatnix felt no more than a small pang as Obelix dropped him and burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm… How is he?"

"Now look here," Beatnix snapped, picking himself up off the floor. He opened his mouth to say more, but the pain radiating from Obelix, the helpless, heartbroken love, was so poignant that the druid relented. "Pull yourself together, man!" Beatnix gave the broad shoulder a little shake. "Come." He shoved the golden sickle into Obelix's unresisting hand. "Hold the blade like this." The druid guided the fat man's hand down to Asterix's face. "You had better hope that it mists over."

Both men held their breath. Obelix's hand trembled slightly as he held the reflective surface up to Asterix's parted lips.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Beatnix could see the effort it took for Obelix to hold the sickle steady. His heart sank as the flat of the blade remained steadfastly shiny, reflecting the firelight, the square of the cottage window, the shades of his and Obelix's reflections. But then, before his eyes, his own image in the burnished surface disappeared, then Obelix's, then the entire room in miniature, obscured by a fine mist, curling in a delicate patina over the mirrored gold. "Toutatis be praised," whispered the druid. "He breathes."

Obelix handed the sickle back, already on his knees; he took up Asterix's limp hand and cradled it carefully in both of his. "Why doesn't he wake up?"

"Be glad of it," Beatnix frowned as he bent to examine the man's wounds. "The gods are merciful to him. If he awoke now, without salve and without potions, he would be in such torment that it would drive him mad, and all the herbs in the forest would not suffice to ease it."

"O Asterix…" It was only when Beatnix observed Obelix pressing Asterix's hand to his cheek, biting his lip in an effort to contain his sobs, that the druid realized he might have spoken a bit too harshly. Well, too bad – he didn't have time to consider the feelings of the family, he was here to save the patient.

He continued his examination, and placed a hand to the man's forehead – not bad, not bad at all. There was the slight warmth that came with any injury this severe, but not the fever that beckoned to Death. "Not giving up without a fight, eh? You, my friend," the druid muttered approvingly, "are a Gaulish warrior inside and out." He looked up at Obelix. "Heart of a lion, am I right?"

"He's the…" Obelix gulped. "There's nobody braver than him." He patted Asterix's hand. "No-one at all."

The druid nodded sympathetically, and turned his attention to his patient. The man could be mistaken for a hunchback: his back was swollen into a monstrous purple balloon, stretched tight and shiny like a water-skein filled to bursting. Tattered strips of drying skin draped over raw flesh slowly scabbing over, while the sides that still had skin were furrowed with puckered gashes and welts that oozed blood and clear fluid. It looked frightening, but actually, drainage was a positive sign, would bring the swelling down… "Open the door and pull that other curtain aside for me, there's a good Gaul," he said, still carefully examining. A scrambling noise was heard, and then the room was flooded in daylight. Beatnix bent to examine the damage more closely. Beneath and to the sides of the edema, the man's torso was one solid bruise, purple and blue and deep black, mottled even on his chest, where the whip had wrapped round his small body. Beatnix would bet his druid's degree that there were cracked bones beneath that swelling…

His head jerked up at a choked gasp. Obelix was staring straight at the damage in the cold light of day. His left hand was at his mouth, the knuckle of his forefinger jammed between his teeth. All the color had drained from his face, and tears spilled steadily down his cheeks. Beatnix was opening his mouth to say something or other when the big man choked out, "O Druid? How is he?"

"Well…" Beatnix began.

"Y—yes?" Obelix appeared to tear his eyes from the sight of his friend's mutilated body, and he looked up, trusting as a child. The force of the man's helpless, desperate love for his friend flowed around Beatnix like a flux of fragrant air, so soft and solid that he could almost lean against its supportive walls. By this time, Beatnix was so punch-drunk from all the emotions that he couldn't even think up a suitable sarcastic retort to the effect that Obelix had practically accused him, the attending druid, of trying to slit Asterix's throat not a few moments ago.

Beatnix bent again to the patient. "I'll be able to tell you better when I examine him." And he did. The damage, though extensive, would heal, given time and care. The real cause for concern was the internal bleeding, the shock to the man's entire system, and the risk of infection in the tissue pulped by the lash. Terrible, of course, but he could detect no infection, no pus or signs of disease. If there had been, he was well aware that nothing would have saved the warrior. As it was, his life was still hanging by a thread. Beatnix wished there were more he could do, but all they could do for him was reapply the salve, give him more of the diluted magic potion, start him on potions to ward off infection, and hope he woke up soon to get some nourishment in him, as well as something for his pain.

"His life," Beatnix finally said soberly, "hangs like a feather in the wind." Ignoring the big man's gasp, Beatnix went on. "I have seen many men, stronger and more powerfully built than your friend, perish from scourgings less brutal than the one he has endured." He shook his head, still mystified. "I cannot fathom what miracle keeps him still alive. I suppose it must be the magic potion and his indomitable will." No reason to sugar-coat it. "By all rights, he should be gone already. Though I am very glad he still lives."

"O Asterix…" Obelix whispered, holding Asterix's cold hand close to his own face, his tears slipping down the man's bruised knuckles. That odd warmth from the previous night brushed around Beatnix again.

"He may yet recover," Beatnix said. "He has survived the night, which is more than I would have thought, given his condition when you…" Realizing he wasn't helping, he shut up.

Manfully gulping back a sob, Obelix shut his eyes tight and pressed his face into the palm of his injured friend's hand as though, all unconscious as Asterix was, he could still give Obelix strength. "Asterix," he whispered, "please…" Blindly, Obelix turned his face sideways, choking back tears, and pressed his lips to the back of Asterix's hand, as a mother might kiss a baby's newborn fingers, or a devoted young soldier the hand of a well-loved commanding officer—and Beatnix was all but knocked backwards by the nurturing energy.

"By Belisama." The veil fell, revealing the mystery of the warmth and peace he had felt before. It was something he had read of when he was younger, but never yet witnessed: the soul-bond. He blinked, staring at the big man weeping over his friend. To look at the big fellow, one would not think him capable of generating such energies, but there was no denying it. This was the famed bond of warriors, of brothers-in-arms: the love that in health brought peace and joy, but in sickness brought only pain. Obelix the Gaul's heartfelt empathy for his friend was a palpable force that filled the room, intense in its way as a healing balm. Beatnix could feel the pang that squeezed every beat of Obelix's heart while his friend suffered, could sense the big man's frustration at his inability to ease it, his pained, thwarted desire to only and ever and always bring his friend and soul-mate comfort and joy.

Soul-mate. That was it, then, the mysterious other factor assisting the magic potion and Asterix's indomitable will, keeping him alive when by all rights he should be dead. Teetering on the brink of death, he had had the good fortune to be lifted and supported by his friend, who had, though his mind and heart and his very flesh, infused him with strength and innocent love – the love shared by those whose souls were bonded by the gods, paradoxically selfless and selfish in one: a love whose only reward, its greatest joy, was the well-being of the beloved.

"Asterix," Obelix was still murmuring, his tears falling on his friend's hand and on his face, repeating his soul-friend's name over and over, sticking as close as he could, as though it were instinct to stay near. I should have my druid's degree revoked, Beatnix thought as he sat there, blinking like an idiot. Now the mystery was solved, of why the man hadn't died from his wounds on the way there, of why he'd survived the night: his friend had been close to him all the time, oftentimes touching him, opening his life-energy to him. All unconsciously, Obelix had been giving Asterix all he had, constantly willing his friend to partake of his own health and strength, to take what he needed to survive. Unconsciously too, Asterix had trusted him, and drunk his fill of his friend's loving energy, through the air he breathed and through his bare skin, absorbing enough strength to live. Live, and maybe, maybe, Beatnix thought, maybe heal, too.

Beatnix shoved the salve into Obelix's hands. "Here. Apply this."

"Uh…?" The man was so astonished that he nearly dropped the bowl, unwilling to let go of Asterix's hand straight away.

"Your healing flux is more beneficial to him, due to the bond you share, and your ministrations will be more effective than mine because you share your life-energy with him."

Obelix blinked. Finally he repeated intelligently, "Uh?"

Beatnix pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look—there's something about the care you give him that strengthens his will to live."

Obelix looked from the druid to the bowl. "Uh?"

Still pinching the bridge of his nose, the druid jerked his head towards Asterix. "It'll help him more if you do it."

Obelix took the bowl. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

Beatnix contemplated saying he'd been explaining for the past ten minutes, and gave it up as a bad job. "Just… go ahead."

Obelix reached into the bowl, but then his face took on a tinge of panic. "But you're the druid…"

"You want to help him, don't you?"

Obelix's eyes filled with even more panic. "But… I can't even knock on a door without breaking it down. And he's—" he looked down at his friend and swallowed, "so – so badly hurt…"

"Be gentle," said Beatnix. "But it will heal him better if you do it. I'm sure of it," he said, injecting a touch of command into his voice. Seeing the hesitation in the big man's eyes, he added encouragingly, "I'll help you."

Beatnix held the bowl for Obelix, speaking reassuringly as Obelix filled his big hands with the salve, lowering them reverently to his friend's tattered back. When his sausage-like fingers touched the ballooned, raw flesh, the man's face crumpled, screwing up as if in pain. Tears slipped down his cheeks to disappear into his mustache; his hands were shaking as he gently, carefully spread the medicine. Beatnix wasn't surprised; the jelly-like ruin of a human torso felt pretty gruesome, even through the thick layer of salve. Through it all, he noted the lightness of the man's touch, the gentleness of those huge, calloused hands that had, only last night, punched through solid rock. "Go on," he kept encouraging Obelix, watching him flinch and grimace as though he were the one in pain. He handled it well, finishing the swollen areas in good time. But when the big man's fingers fetched up against the loose-hanging strips where the flagrum had torn the flesh to ribbons, he jerked back violently, not in revulsion but in sorrow, clumsily scrubbing at his tearful face with the backs of his hands.

Beatnix patted him on the shoulder, barely making out Obelix's broken words: "O Asterix …if I'd known… done anything… anything at all…"

"It's all right," soothed the druid, setting down the bowl. "You're doing all you can…"

"No, I'm not." Obelix gulped. "All my fault. It's all…"

"You weren't the one to beat him, were you?"

Obelix flinched violently at the words 'beat him'. "I left him!"

"Did you know they were coming for him?"

"I…" Obelix bit back a sob, trying to speak. "I knew it was dangerous, and I left him all alone."

"You've learned your lesson for next time," the druid tried.

This time the big man couldn't hold back his sobs. "I made a mistake… and he paid for it!" Obelix scrubbed the salve off his hands against his clothes and sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "He's always paying for my stupidity…"

"Stop… being silly… idiot…"

In unison, both men's heads swiveled towards Asterix. "What?"

Asterix's voice was a wrecked whisper. "…Obelix… always been… over-sensitive…"

"Asterix!" In a flash, Obelix was on his knees by his bedside, both hands clasping his friend's. "You're awake!"

Asterix's hand curled around Obelix's, his teeth clenching in pain. The druid watched in awe as the little warrior forced the words out through pale, cracked lips – if it wasn't for the salve and his friend's borrowed life-force, the man would have been crying out in agony. Now, though he was clearly suffering, he managed to shift his head a little, and meet his friend's eyes. "…wouldn't be able… to do half the things I do… without you."

"Hush, Asterix. Hush." Obelix whispered urgently. "Save your strength. Don't talk. Don't move. Don't tire yourself. Rest." He patted the back of Asterix's hand, still clenched tight about his own, and smoothed back the tousled blond hair. "You just rest, all right? The druid and I will take care of everything."

"Actually, since you're awake," Beatnix said, "this is a good time for a potion to ward off infection. Then when next you wake," (if next you wake, he thought silently – he knew that sometimes these awakenings were the flame that burned brief and bright before going out for good) "we'll see about giving you a potion for pain, and some soup to build your strength up."

The wounded man blinked hazily up at him, but made no reply. "This is the attending druid," Obelix said helpfully. "We're in his hut."

"Greetings… O Druid…" panted Asterix through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, and he whispered to his friend: "I am a bit… thirsty."

"Yes. Whippings seem to leave men thirsty," Beatnix blurted. Toutatis, he was being pretty callous, unable to find tactful words in his astonishment at the small man's fortitude. He wondered how Asterix was managing to be coherent, with the pain he must have been in. "Greet me later," he rapped out, not unkindly, swinging the storage cupboard open and retrieving his special anti-infection potion – it looked and tasted disgusting, made as it was from bread-mold, but it had a powerful magic in it that prevented wounds from suppurating. "For now, your friend has the right idea. You need to rest, sleep, let your body heal. But first, drink this." He handed Obelix the gourd of foul-tasting potion. "Give it to him slowly."

Obelix gently cupped Asterix's head in his hand, lifting him enough to sip the potion. Asterix spluttered a little at first, but dutifully drank it all down. His friend lowered his head back to the pillow, and he was asleep again in seconds.

"It's a good sign, isn't it?" Obelix occupied himself with fussing over his friend, wiping his mouth and settling him more comfortably.

"We shall see," Beatnix said gravely. "In the meantime, we need to prepare food and medicine." He ran mentally through his stocks: he had plenty of herbs for healing, but he was a little short on nourishment for the weakened warrior to begin rebuilding himself. "How good a hunter are you?" he asked.

Obelix looked up. "Not too shabby, if I do say so myself."

"So you could get, say, a rabbit – if your friend needed one?"

The big man looked from Asterix to Beatnix. "What's wrong with boar?"

"I have no weapons."

"Don't change the subject. What's wrong with boar?"

Beatnix blinked, then smiled. "Why, nothing." He nodded. "A boar would be fine." Of course, a man of Obelix's size and superhuman strength would be comfortable hunting boar with his bare hands. And speaking of superhuman strength… "Was I only dreaming," Beatnix said slowly, gazing at his perfect, intact cottage wall and the spotless floor before it, "or did you punch half of my wall to dust last night?"

Obelix had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry about that. I… I wasn't myself."

Beatnix waved a dismissive hand. "That's not what I meant. I mean, my wall didn't magically repair itself, did it?"

Obelix actually blushed. "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night. Thought I'd keep busy. Besides, Asterix might have caught cold."

"But…" Beatnix finished his task, wiped his hands, and walked over to the wall. It was pristine, the stone meticulously carved out and fitting like a glove, surrounded by smaller stones and carefully packed in with clay. "When did you…" he looked over at Obelix. "What… Are you a builder?"

The man still clutched his friend's hand tightly, but a sliver of pride crept into his voice. "I'm a menhir delivery man by trade. Well," he appeared to catch himself, "menhir-maker, too. I make menhirs and then I deliver them."

Beatnix raised his eyebrows. Unlike many of his fellow-Gauls, he was aware of the importance of the menhir: he knew the magical uses that some druids had for menhirs, and their role in the building of dolmens. He looked from the big Gaul to the beautifully-executed wall, the perfectly shaped rock in its center. A skilled stonecutter, then… "But how did you shape it so well? You didn't have any tools."

"Well… I did sort of borrow the pick that was at the back of the house, next to all those stones."

Beatnix frowned. He had bought it to repair his chimney, and then that accursed builder Illogix had got the idea that he, Beatnix, had dealings with the dead, and ran off in the middle of the job. These city folk were crazy. "But there's no hammer."

Obelix just nodded sagely. "It does make not splitting the bigger rocks a bit more difficult."

The druid stared at him for a long moment, then began to laugh.

"I know what you're going to do with your days, young feller-me-lad."